Hiding in the Blackness
by The Only Me In Existence
Summary: When a young teen witnesses her mother's murder, she feels a sort of blackness stirring inside of her mind. An empty feeling that she can't shake off. Can she fight the blackness with the help of those around her, or will she surrender to the one thing she fears the most? Her mother's killer, Dad. Rated T for violent scenes, coarse language, and dark themes.
1. Chapter 1

**I do not own Sherlock. I only own my additional plot line in my original characters**

 **Please enjoy and review.**

•\•/•Chapter 1•\•/•

Blackness.

That's all I felt anymore. Just a lone emotionless feeling that resided in the grey area of the chart of my psyche. I don't know exactly what it means to feel blackness, though. Maybe I'm crazy. Maybe I lost all of my humanity, or maybe I was just nothing anymore. A lobotomised human shell. A thing to manipulate and do a villain's bidding. Though, I was pretty easy to manipulate in the first place, to be honest.

My dad was a manipulator. 'The World's Best Salesman' is what my dad and I would joke about behind close doors. He could sell a drowning man water and talk his way out of speeding tickets. He would con people. He would say that he didn't con per say, but he would 'play the innocent man.' He 'played' his way through university; he got away with cheating and bribing the teachers. He worked at a law firm. He could see a lie from the smallest of details. It was brilliant actually, quite brilliant.

But not brilliant enough to see that his own wife was slowly leaving him. Mom was afraid that he was a psychopath or something worse, though he was never violent. She said it was the little things that scared her at first. She never told me what they were but she said that if I looked closely, I would see it myself. I didn't like that answer but I guess I was biased. I mean, I had lived with him all my life so I would have probably overlooked his 'behaviour'. It wasn't until Mom tried to leave with me, that I finally saw the scary part of him. At first, he was just trying to convince her to stay, but then things changed.

"What are you doing? Is it something I did?" He pleaded holding on to her shoulders. To anyone else, it would have looked a little pathetic, but I saw something different. There was a look in his eyes that chilled my bones. I didn't know what that look was, but I noticed it so it must have been important. He continued pleading when my mom just gently pulled his hands off of herself, "You can't take her away! Hannah! She is my daughter! You are my wife! You said that we would stay together, as a family!"

We were all that he had and she knew that. He knew that she knew. Hell, even I knew that. My grandparents abandoned dad when he was thirteen years old and he was stuck in foster care for the rest of his childhood. But she still resisted him. That's when I saw the face that he had always warned me about. The face with the angled eyebrows and the deep frown, followed my the jaw tensing for a moment. That face shows pure anger and rage, something he had always told me to run away from. In a split second, he became violent and start hitting her, bashing her face in with the heel of his hand. She grunted and screeched, but not loud enough to attract attention. No, he didn't give her time to take in a deep enough breath. Her blood ran from her nose, her mouth, her eyes, her everything. Mixing with her tears, the blood splattered onto my face, where it slowly slid down my cheek, and as it streamed down, time seemed to slow. It wasn't quite like it is in the movies, but it reminded me a bit of it.

I think that is when I lost myself. All my empathy vanished before my eyes. All I felt was a surge of self-preservation. Instead of pulling my dad off of her, I ran away, like a coward. I didn't care for my mom's safety. I couldn't. I wanted to, I really did but for some reason I couldn't. I just grabbed my stuff and ran to my mom's car. She had set our plane tickets in the glove box with our new citizenship information. Mom was a paranoid person, always thinking that Dad would find out. I used to think that she was insane, but now I am grateful for her paranoia. As I started the car I saw the couple from across the street step out of their stupid yellow car. One of them, Harold, waved to me. Usually I would have waved back, they were nice people but I just peeled out of the driveway.

I drove myself to the airport then sat in the car for a bit, knowing that I had time to spare and Dad had no idea where we were going. Well, where I was going. I wiped at my eye and looked at my hand when I felt a liquid.

There was blood. My mother's blood.

I rapidly started to wipe it off. I couldn't handle having her blood on me. The guilt of leaving my mother with him hadn't breached my shock quite yet, but if I didn't want to attract attention, I couldn't have her blood on me. I tried to remember what the plan was. Until now, I was acting on auto pilot, without reason or caution.

She had told me the plan weeks ago, almost every single day since then when she picked me up from work.

 _"Remember this, love. We are going to get on this plane and then we are going to stay with my old friend from Uni."_

 _"But, what if he stops us?"_

 _"Then I will buy you some time and you get on that plane. I'll meet you there, okay love?"_

 _"Yeah, okay."_

I had no idea what she was so scared of at the time, but I trusted her so I did what she told me to. I grabbed my bags and made my way to check in.

I boarded my plane without incident. I was a little surprised to find that they had no problems with sending a teenage girl on a plane by herself. Maybe they didn't care, or maybe they didn't notice how old I was. I mean, I was fourteen. Either way, I had made my way to my mom's home-city, London, and there I would wait for her.

If she ever came.

•\•/•_•\•/•

The plane ride was very boring. The man next to me was spilling out of his chair, not because of him being fat, he was actually really skinny. He just didn't feel so good, a green tent to his skin caused by nausea. I had offered him a Dramamine tablet and he took it gratefully. I think he said his name was Rufus, or something like that. I really didn't pay attention. He was boring and he lied a lot.

He kept trying to convince me things that weren't even remotely near the truth. It was amusing to hear about his insane conspiracies for about five minutes, but when he was starting to talk about political conspiracies, like the JFK assassination or that Bush did 9/11, it soon became boring. I tried to be civil but the shock of seeing my mother beaten by my father was probably wearing off as well as my patience.

"Would you just shut hell up about 'reptiles' that run the United States?" I looked him straight in the eye with almost no emotion on my face. He sputtered incredulously. I continued to stare at him. I don't know why I would say something like that, but I had already said it so I wasn't going to take it back. I might have been a wuss, but I wasn't going to be a complete social idiot. He was the first to break eye contact and looked for some back up from the other passengers. None of them responded to our situation, probably too enthralled with their own problems. Though, I thought I saw some grey-haired guy in a suit trying to hide his giggles.

He soon gave up on his mission to speak of his own opinions and turned on his computer. I mentally kicked myself. I forgot my computer and my cell phone at the house. I had planned to stay in touch with my friends, but now it was probably for the best not to contact them, since my dad was probably a murderer.

Murderer. My dad. A murderer. That's something you don't get to say that everyday. The rest of the plane ride I sat there brooding quietly.

•\•/•_•\•/•

I went through customs quite easily. The customs officer was very nice and quite pretty. She smiled while the others wore grimaces. I almost broke down crying in front of her. She seemed so calm in comparison to my inner turmoil. But, I had berated myself for that moment of weakness. I needed to get out of the airport before I really lost it.

I walked through the lobby to get outside. The city was bustling with taxis and people of all shapes and sizes. I continued to walk with my carry-on and my suitcase rolling behind me. The giggling man passed me, speaking into his phone. He looked important, in his grey suit and his black suitcase. His face distorted into disgust, probably hearing something he didn't like from his assistant. I continued to look around the large airport. It was nothing like the airport back in Kansas. It felt more open, despite having more people running around it.

I knew nothing of the plan my mom had after getting to London. All I knew was how to get to London. I didn't even know who my mom's friends were. But, I was my father's daughter. I could figure something out. I went into the first grocery store and went straight for the hair dye. My hair had to change. I looked at the prices for the red dye. I wanted to have my mother's ginger hair colour, instead of my dad's deep brown. The prices were a bit high and I didn't want to waste my money on something I could only use once. I looked around for something cheaper. Weirdly enough, there was a electric razor that was cheaper than the hair dye. I contemplated for a minute.

'Do I really want to shave my head? Not really. I like my shoulder length hair. But if Dad comes after me, I need to look different. He would probably expect my hair to be dyed, but he would never predict me shaving it all off.'

I grabbed the razor and walked up to the cashier. The old asian lady smiled sweetly at me. I faked a polite smile and handed her the product. My hands were shaking a bit. She looked stunned for a second, but then her smile returned and rang it up.

"Eighteen," she said, her voice just as sweet as her smile, and waited patiently for me to hand her the money. Mom had exchanged the money weeks ago, claiming to Dad that she bought me a new computer. I pitched in some of my money that I earned working at a local diner and Mom "borrowed" money from the bank. Altogether we had five thousand euros. I reached into my bag and pulled out the correct amount and shakily handed it to her. She immediately inserted the money into the register and handed me the receipt.

"Thank you, very much." I told her. She looked surprised at my accent, but left it alone. I'm from the U.S. so of course I am going to get weird looks over here. I better get used to it. I grabbed the razor from the counter and walked out the door. I needed to find a place to cut my hair. I know better than to cut it at the store that I bought it from. It would look too suspicious. I put the razor into my bag and headed to the nearest gas station.

I went straight to the bathroom, not even bothering to say hello to the attendant. I opened the door to the girl's bathroom and found two women gossiping in it. I didn't have the time to wait for them to get out so I checked out the guy's bathroom. It was empty. I looked around to make sure no one would see me go in. No one was around, so I stepped in and locked the door.

The urinals were covered in graffiti and grime. The walls weren't any better. It smelled of aged urine and cigarettes. I pushed my disgust aside and stepped to the sink. I ripped open the box and plugged the the razor into the outlet. I held the razor in my right hand, my thumb rubbing the switch. My doubts were now eating at my conscious.

Maybe Mom is alive and she won't be able to find me if I shave my head. Or maybe I should go back to Dad and apologise. He wouldn't be mad at me. He would think that I just got really scared. I looked up into the mirror and all my thoughts stopped.

All I could see was my dad's face, twisted in anger. Eyebrows raised on the outside, with a heavy frown. The same face that hit my mother over and over. Again and again. The same face he would make if he found me. I blinked and then I was looking at my face. My usual rosy cheeks were pale like death. My eyes were wide in fear. In all, I looked like I was a ghost. I could see the same fear in my face that I had seen in my mother's for weeks. I blinked again.

My eyes returned to the razor, inspecting it. With the flick of my thumb, the razor came to live, vibrating my hand. I looked back up to the mirror and brought the razor to the top of my head and slowly swiped backwards. My brown, curly hair fell to the sink. I stared at it for a few seconds before returning to get more hair.

When I finally finished I looked at my handiwork in the mirror. I gasped softly. I didn't see myself anymore; I saw a stranger. I saw a slave who had just broken free from the bonds of his master. I don't remember how long I stood there, looking into the mirror, but I finally stopped when a lone tear slid down the left side of my face. I quickly wiped it away and cleaned up my hair, depositing it into the trash. I reached into my carry-on and retrieved a stocking hat and sat it on my head. I unplugged the razor and put it into my bag, leaving the box with my hair. I grabbed my stuff and peeked out of the bathroom. I took a minute to inspect the store, checking for cameras. There was none.

I crept out of the bathroom and walked to the farthest aisle from the register. I quickly and quietly stuffed five water bottles into my bag along with three boxes of dry food. I was about to leave when a thought stopped me. I need to make it look like I actually bought something. I opened one of the fridges and grabbed a 99 cent water bottle and walked toward the front counter. I saw some sandwiches so I grabbed one and put it on the counter. The guy looked up and took my items and rang them.

"Eight seventy," he stated, his voice in monotone. I quickly handed him the money and grabbed the water and sandwich and walked toward the door, my heart pounding in my head.

"Hey, mate!" he called out. I froze. I took a breath and turned around with a curious expression plastered onto my face. He held his hand out to me with a closed fist.

"You forgot your change."

I mentally screamed. I shook my head and gave a polite smile and continued to the doors. I walked away nonchalantly but when I got to the end of the block, I let out a breath I didn't know I still had.

I continued walking, taking note of the street names.

•\•/•_•\•/•

After an hour of walking, I started to get tired. I hadn't slept since the night before I left. I didn't sleep on the plane, too afraid to wake up to my dad's angry face, but I had to keep walking. I needed to find a hotel that was cheap enough for me to stay at until my mom got here. If she ever did.

All the hotels were very expensive and posh. I would stick out like a sore thumb if I stayed. The sun was disappearing behind the tall buildings. I needed to find a place fast. I walked past a bank and looked at the electronic sign. It read, "5:47 PM 2 DEGREES C". No wonder it was so cold. I pulled my jacket closer around me, trying to fend off the cold. There wasn't as many people on the street as there was earlier. I heard feet hitting the ground behind me but didn't investigate. The pounding got closer and louder, so I turned my head just in time to see two teenaged boys snatch my suitcase and take off.

I stood there stunned, and when I realised what happened, the boys were out of sight. That suitcase had my new identification and around 4,700 euros. The rest of the money was in my carry-on, which was wrapped around me by the straps. I sank to my knees on the sidewalk. I was royally screwed. People passed me, hardly giving me a second glance unless it was to cast a dirty look.

I sat there for ten minutes, just trying not to cry and occasionally being bumped into by adults. I had barely any money and no more clothes. I felt guilty for stealing from the gas station, and the weight of my mother being attacked by my dad was now hitting me like a ton of bricks. I was alone in London, and Mom wasn't going to get here and make it all better. I looked around and watched the people pass by. There were business men with their clients, boyfriends and girlfriends holding each other close.

In front of me there was a woman and her son. He was probably about five or six and he was a bundle of energy, skipping alongside his mother. He bounced his blue ball as he walked. His mother chatted on her phone, barely giving anyone else the time of day.

Suddenly without warning, the blue ball bounced away into the street. The boy got a confused look on his face and quickly went after it. My eyes widened as I notice a car coming to where the ball sat. Before I could realise, my legs were moving as fast as they could. I grabbed the boy from the street and tossed him back to the sidewalk before the car would hit him.

Without a second's notice, I was flying off the roof of the car. I landed head first on the street with a loud crack. My vision blurred, and I saw that the water bottles from my bag were emptying onto the ground along with the granola that I had stolen. Pain rushed through my body and I felt something wet drain from my nose down to my cheek. Is it snot running down my face? Oh god, that's disgusting.

That thought was quickly overrode by pain. It came out of nowhere, and it was unbearable. I throbbed all over, but most of the pain was coming from my head and my left arm.

The driver and some other bystanders came toward me. The driver checked me over. He kept touching my arm and I wanted to yell at him to stop; it hurt so much. The pain got worse when the fuck-wit actually grabbed my arm and started shaking me. What the actually hell does he think that was going to accomplish?! Even though the pain was so enormous, I couldn't figure out how to scream, cry, or even laugh. It felt like my brain had just been unplugged and plugged back in again.

"Oh god! Are you okay there?" his gruff and heavy accented voice sounded. He must have been no longer than two inches from my face, because his breath covered me. It was horrible. If I wasn't in so much pain, I would have given him a lifesaver. Or, like, twenty three of them. "Oh god! I didn't see you until you hit my car! Somebody call an ambulance!"

I moved my eyes over to the sidewalk and saw the little boy staring at me while holding the blue ball. He was crying. I looked a little down and saw that he had a scrapped knee. I really wanted to ask him if he was alright, but given my current condition, I knew that was far fetched. I returned my gazed to his face, when his mother came over to him and tried to comfort him. My vision slowly faded to blackness as my eyes rolled back into my head. The same blackness that filled my mind.


	2. Chapter 2

**I do not own Sherlock. I only own my additional plot line and my original characters**

 **Please enjoy and review.**

•\•/•Chapter 2•\•/•

Blackness, again.

I laid there in the blackness for what felt like eternity. Waves of calmness and safety would randomly wash over me. My head and limbs felt like heavy iron, like I had just ran a triathlon. There was no pain however, just the feeling of fatigue. I could smell and feel the people that were around me, but I couldn't hear or see them. A bubble of panic travelled its way up in my throat.

How did I get here? Where is here? What happened? Am I okay? My panic didn't subside or even minimise in the slightest. Instead, the panic doubled and I wished that I could move away from my paralysed prison. I wanted to open my eyes, but they wouldn't comply. I needed to escape. I was going to die and I couldn't remember why. I needed escape now before...

Before what? What was I so afraid of? Was it a person, or was it just the panic speaking, trying to get a rise out of my already scared brain? I tried to quell my fear in hope of figuring out why I was so scared. I would try to take deep breaths but it felt like I had a tube shoved down my throat...

A tube? But they only put tubes down coma patients' throats... Oh.

Oh! I was in a hospital. I must have gotten hurt or something. That would explain why I was so tired and why I was unable to move. But what happened to me? Did I get into a fight? No, I would never do that. I am too much of a wuss to do something like that. I mean, I am an only child; I never had to fight with siblings for mundane things, like getting the first cookie or opening presents. Could I have fallen? Maybe I tripped down the stairs when running from...

From who? Who was I supposed to be running from? Maybe a bully at school? Work? Maybe I felt scared of a stranger and ran home without looking where I was going. Maybe I was just running. I sometimes just feel the need to run places. It seemed like a good explanation, but I felt like I was running from something, or someone. Someone I knew.

Whatever the reason, I should probably wake up now. Mom and Dad can tell me what happened. Dad is probably worried sick about me. Mom is probably not doing much better.

Mom. A sullen emotion washed over me when I thought about Mom. Why was I so sad...

Images flashed through my brain with a supersonic speed. Mom's scared face. Blood splattering around the hallway. Screams. My mother's screams. My dad looking sad and then, in an instant, his face stretched into feral anger. His voice rising and getting more aggressive.

Oh god! Please! Please stop! Dad, please!

I remember feeling the blood splatter onto my face. I remember it running down my cheek. Please make it stop! I don't want to see this again! I could feel tears running down my face. My mother's tears mixing with her blood. I heard some unfamiliar distorted voices getting louder and clearer. My father's voice was getting louder as well, screaming profanities at my mom, calling her stupid. Traitor. Whore.

My paralysed body regained its control and I felt myself shaking and jolting. I felt hands grab onto my shoulders, trying to hold me still. I shook and fought against the hands. My father's voice getting closer to me, and I realised that he wasn't yelling at my mom anymore, but at me. Calling me names instead. A good for nothing. A waste of space.

A liar.

More hands grabbed ahold of me, pinning my legs and my abdomen down to the bed. I heard voices trying to calm me down, but they were wasting their breath. I couldn't calm down. I needed to get away from him now!

Please just let me go!

I felt a pinch in my arm. Gently, but rapidly, I relaxed into a conscious free sleep.

•\•/•_•\•/•

It felt like I'd been asleep for days. My eyes moved on command, which was a great improvement from my previous situation. I cautiously opened my eyes. All I saw was a bright yellow tint coming from the ceiling lights. I blinked away the offending light and waited for my eyes to adjust to the brightness. I slowly moved my eyes around, inspecting the room.

I tried to move my head but when I got to the edge of my peripheral vision I soon realised that I had a tube in my mouth, restricting my movement. My gag reflex realised this as well. Guttural sounds escaped me and I brought my right hand to my neck, hoping to somehow stop the assaulting gags. I was too busy with the uncomfortable sensations to notice a man and a woman rush to me. The woman gently pried away my hand and held it in her own.

"Hey, hey, hey. Sweetheart, you need to calm down," her voice reassuring and yet commanding, like a police officer. I tried to calm down and look at her face, slowly comprehending what she looked like. She was dark-skinned and had frizzy hair. It suited her, but on anyone else, it would be considered a bad hair day.

"Yeah, that's it. Just look at me. Alright?" I gave her a small nod, tears prickling at my eyes from the discomfort. Her face brightened and a comforting smile made its way to her features. The smile was genuine, much to my surprise. Not many people are genuine these days. No trace of deception was present on her face, which made me automatically trust her.

"Hi. My name is Sally Donovan and this is John Watson. He is going to take out that tube, okay?" I give her another small nod and Mr. Watson slowly detached the tube and positioned my neck to a better angle. He grabbed the tube and pulled it out smoothly, but it still made me gag more. Ms. Donovan rubbed my arm as I regained control of myself. Mr. Watson got up and returned a few seconds later with a cup of water. Ms. Donovan helped me sit up, seeing as I was still weak, and Mr. Watson guided the water to my mouth. The water wasn't cold, but it felt wonderful going down my sore and dry throat. Mr. Watson brought the cup away from my mouth, probably to make sure that I didn't drown myself. I tried to grab the cup and bring it back to my mouth, but my left arm felt too heavy.

I glanced down to see what the problem was, and was shocked to see cast holding my left arm tight in a sling by my chest. My breathing stopped as I remembered what had happened. A blue ball. A small boy running into the street. I was running. Then I was hit by a car.

Ms. Donovan's hand never left my arm, rubbing it in a comforting way. I gently let myself breathe in precious oxygen. I couldn't panic right now; they might sedate me and I wanted to be awake. Mr. Watson sat the cup on the table next to us. I took the opportunity to get a look around the room. The walls were a light yellow with pictures of bland park-paintings scattered about. There was a big window that allowed the natural light from the sun to mingle with the artificial light emitting from the fluorescent bulbs. It was in all sense, a hospital. It even had the disinfectant and latex glove smell.

I almost didn't noticed the man standing by the door. His pale face contorted in concentration. His eyes quickly roamed over me, almost like he was reading a book. If I hadn't known my father, I would have been very uncomfortable and confused, but I did know him and he would look at me like that in the same way when he was checking for lies. His gaze finally reached mine and for a moment, I stared blankly at him. I was the first to look away, for his eyes were a striking green colour that intimidated me.

I looked back at Ms. Donovan and Mr. Watson and noticed different emotions on their faces. Ms. Donovan's face had the reminisce of disgust that had gone away when she looked back at me and away from the pale man. Mr. Watson, however, had a concerned look on his face as he rapidly glance back and forth between me and the other man. I was stuck in wonder; Ms. Donovan obviously didn't like the man but Mr. Watson was just waiting for him to say something offensive so that he could apologise on his behalf. So was he nice, or rude? Ms. Donovan, I would assumed, would agree with the latter. The pale man looked like he was done reading me. A knowing smirk twitched out on his face for a fraction of a second, almost like he was saying, "Gotcha." He opened his mouth, about to speak when Mr. Watson stopped him.

"Sherlock, not now. She's in shock," Mr. Watson's voice sounding commanding like Ms. Donovan's, but more formal. He sounded a bit like Drill-Sergeant Cainer. Cainer was the marine that would come to my school to recruit people for the military. He was overbearing and intimidating, but Mr. Watson didn't seem like that. And Cainer was a brunet and had brown eyes, while Mr. Watson was blond with blue eyes.

Wait. What type of name is Sherlock? I've never heard it before. Maybe it was a common name in the U.K.

"What? I wasn't going to say anything." Sherlock rebutted with his deep voice back to Mr. Watson, his left shoulder shrugging a millimetre. From that motion alone I realised that he lied and I glared slightly at him, silently reprimanding him for lying, even if it was a small lie. What can I say? I really don't like liars. Sherlock's eyebrow raised, whether it was a challenge or confusion, I didn't know. I was too tired to tell.

"What's your name, Sweetheart?" Ms. Donovan asked, pointedly ignoring the two men. I tore my gaze away from him and looked back to Ms. Donovan. I opened my mouth to reply but I stopped short of making a noise and blinked. What was my new name? My eyes darted about, trying to remember. Mom changed it secretly. God! What was my new name?! My face must have twisted in frustration, because Mr. Watson touch my shoulder softly.

"Hey, hey. It's okay. You don't have to worry about that right now. It's okay if you don't remember. You hit your head pretty hard and you have a concussion. It will come to you, when it comes." Mr. Watson said in a slightly less commanding voice. He sounded like a doctor. Maybe he was a veteran and then he became a doctor, or something. Either way, it didn't matter. I had to remember my name. I heard someone's voice telling me all that was wrong with me, but I wasn't listening. Was it Emily? Megan? Haley? Ellie?

Ellie. Close but not quite cigar material. Eveline? Ella? Elizabeth?

That's it! Elizabeth... Kieran? Yeah, Elizabeth Kieran. Kieran was my friend's late aunt's name. I looked back up to them, only to see them looking at me expectantly. Did they ask me a question? Suddenly, Sherlock let out a loud sigh, which made me look up to him questioningly.

"They asked you how you were feeling," was all he said while crossing his arms impatiently. I was beginning to think that he was arrogance embodied. I really didn't like his attitude all that much. For god's sakes, he could be a little nicer. I mean, I was just hit by a car! Complete asshat.

"Well, I think I'm just peachy besides the whole 'can't sit up on my own' problem." The snark rolled off me in waves as I spoke mainly to the newly proclaimed 'asshat' in the doorway. His head snapped up to stare at me and he came closer, standing a foot away from the bed. I shouldn't have said that. I should not have said that. I lowered my head a bit and apologised. He just waved it off.

"You're American. Interesting," he mumbled, bringing his eyes to roam over me to read, again. Pure curiosity covered his face. A second later, he looked me in the eye and spoke again. "And why did you shave your head? A bit too young to have a mid-life crisis."

"Sherlock-" "Freak-" Mr. Watson and Ms. Donovan started at the same time but stopped when another man appeared in the doorway. Mr. Watson glared at Ms. Donovan and she glared at Sherlock. The man was dressed in a doctor's uniform. He cleared his throat to get their attention.

"Sergeant Donovan," she looked towards him. "May I speak to you outside. You too, Doctor Watson." Both of them looked reluctant to leave but did so anyway. So, I was right. A doctor and a police woman. Where was I? In an episode of Doctor Who? Ms -I mean- Sergeant Donovan sent a warning look at Sherlock and in returned got a look of "pure" innocence. Sergeant Donovan lowered me back down to the bed and then pushed some buttons, making the bed sit up. When they left the room, I returned my stare back to Sherlock. He just stared back, but this time I refused to look away.

"So, why did you shave your head?" His voice startled me. I took a quick second to think of a lie, but came up with nothing. I looked back up to him.

"Why does it matter? It's just hair." I rebutted, trying to avoid the question. He smirked, apparently amused.

"Why deflect the question? It was just a question." Shit. He was smart. I needed to change the subject. I turned to the window between us and the two men and Sergeant Donovan. She looked rejected, and John -I mean- Dr. Watson looked really sad.

"They think I'm suicidal, don't they?" I asked no one in particular. I jumped when Sherlock answered. I forgot he was in the room still. He moved to the chair on the left side of the bed.

"Most likely. You did jump in front of a car."

"No, I didn't." I moved my gaze to the man who sat in the chair next to me. He raised an eyebrow. I backtracked. "Well, not in the sense that you people think I did."

"What do you mean?" He asked, curious and confused.

"I was trying to get the boy out of the..." I stopped short. I shouldn't tell anyone what happened. It might get put in the news and then Dad might find me. I shook my head. Time to change the subject. "Who are you anyway?" He smirked a bit at my deflection, but this time he didn't question it.

"I'm Sherlock Holmes. I'm working with Scotland Yard to find out who you are," Sher- Mr. Holmes stated, looking a bit proud. He was working with the police. Wait. How can you work with the police? Was he a psychiatrist? I looked more closely at him. His arms laid flat on the armrests and his overall stance seem relaxed. No, he didn't seem like the type. I was genuinely confused. My face scrunched up. Was he a PI?

"So, you are a private investigator? But, the police don't just go to PIs. They have a full department dedicated just to detectives." I questioned. Why would they need a private investigator? It made no sense. Oh, but I've heard of families employing PIs in order to find their person quicker. But they didn't know who I was so that was out of the question. So why was he here? Mr. Holmes rolled his eyes and took a deep sigh.

"I'm a consulting detective." He stated, as if it was the most obvious thing in the known universe. I felt myself deadpan. This guy was definitely not a psychiatrist.

"...and that means?" He looked as if his patience was the width of a spider web and I was pretty sure he wasn't the only in this room with that problem.

"And that means," he paused to cross his long legs in the seemingly uncomfortable chair. "-that when the police are out of their depth, which is all the time, they call me. Though, usually it's about murder and not a teenage runaway." I flinched at the mention of murder, seeing as it was a terrifying subject for me. His eyes narrowed at my form, but he didn't say anything. I thought for a moment, trying to understand the concept of 'consulting detective.'

"So, you're like a consulting physician, but with crimes and not injuries?" I asked the annoying pale man.

"That wouldn't be the most apt comparison, but yes."

"Okay." I replied, taking his snark as an answer. "That sounds cool." He shrugged his shoulders nonchalantly, trying to hide his pride from my praise. I brought my eyes to my lap, where I inspected my cast.

A minute passed before I heard Mr. Holmes move around in the hospital chair. I didn't immediately look up, but when I did, Mr. Holmes's face was two inches away from mine. My eyes widened at the sudden closeness.

"What are you running from?" His voice suddenly very serious. I gulped out of fear.

"I-I-I'm not running from anyb-body." I stuttered, fearfully leaning away from him.

"So, it's a person." He smirked triumphantly. "Who is it?"

"N-no one!" I yelped out a little too fast. Tears started forming at my eyes. Mr. Holmes leaned forward another inch, his eyes transforming into dark spheres that appeared to stare straight into my soul.

 _"You're lying~!"_ His mouth moved, his breath pushing itself onto my cold skin. But, it wasn't his voice that I heard. A more sinister baritone ricocheted in my head. My eyes widened to their full extent when I realised whose voice it was.

 _"Liar~!"_

I could hear Dad say that word over and over again.

 _"Liar~!"_

I couldn't move, even when Mr. Holmes notice my tears and moved back. The tears that had formed cascaded down my face with rapid succession. I could see his mouth moving, but the only voice I could hear was Dad's.

 _"Liar~!"_

I didn't even notice Mr. Holmes's hand coming towards me until it touched my arm. That's when all my panic was let loose onto the world, like the horsemen of hell. I screamed.

"NO!" My arm acted on its own accord and smacked Mr. Holmes's hand away and with strength I didn't know I had, I launched myself off the bed onto the floor, landing onto my cast. Pain shot up my arm. Suddenly, Mr. Holmes was kneeling over me trying to stop me from moving. I fought against him, trying to get away from the voice. Mr. Holmes's hands found my face and forced me to look at him. The motion caused me to turn onto my back and off of my arm, relieving some of the discomfort.

"You're safe here!" I heard a voice command but Dad's voice was louder.

 _"You are a little liar! A dirty, little fucking liar~!"_ My dad's voice sung. Suddenly, I found that my hand was being held tightly. Dad's voice gradually got quieter as I focused on the large hand in my smaller one.

"Look at me." His voice growing louder. Mr. Holmes gently let go of my hand to grab the side of my face, keeping my eyes on him. My hand found its way to his long coat, grasping onto it for the sake of my sanity.

"He's going to find me. Please don't let him get me." I whispered as all the feelings I was pushing down broke through the barrier and I started bawling. I couldn't stop myself from crying. It had all finally got to me and I was crying in front of a grown man that I hadn't even known for five minutes. Mr. Holmes seemingly realising that I couldn't stop myself shushed me calmly, keeping his hands on the sides of my face. I felt myself subconsciously lean into his hand.

"You are safe here. He can't get you. You are safe." I blinked away some tears and stared into his eyes. I could feel the calm feeling that I needed desperately coming towards me. It was like he was radiating it like noxious gas. I searched for a lie. I had to know if he was telling the truth. His eyes stared straight into the back of my mind. There was no shoulder shrug this time. He wasn't lying.

My breathing slowed down to a shakily calm speed. My tears were stopping, slowly but surely. I was sure that my face was now an ugly blotchy red colour, but I really couldn't care less at that moment. Sergeant Donovan and Dr. Watson ran into the room, both with shocked clear on their faces. Mr. Holmes looked over to them for a second and then caught my gaze.

"I'm going to help you sit up now." He said, but he looked like he was asking. I stiffly nodded and his hands left my face and rested on my right arm and my left hip. When I was finally sitting up, his hand moved away from my hip and returned to my face to wipe my tears off of my cheek. With a soft voice he asked me the question that I knew I wasn't ready to answer. If I told him it would be real.

"Who is he?" I looked at his face, which had softened immensely. His green eyes were softer and didn't intimidate me anymore. I tightened my grip on his coat, trying to stop myself from crying again. All I could do was shake my head side to side. I couldn't tell him. I really wanted to, but I couldn't.

"It's okay. You don't have to say anything about him right now." Mr. Holmes softly spoke. "How about we talk about something small?"

"What did you do-" Sergeant Donovan started at Mr. Holmes.

"O-okay." I nodded shakily, unknowingly interrupting Sergeant Donovan. A small smile appeared on his long, pale face.

"Let's try to remember your name." I nodded and took a deep breath. My eyes closed in concentration, trying to remember my name again.

"Elizabeth." I whispered once it came to me again. My throat was burning from all the crying so my voice sounded stale. Mr. Holmes cleared his throat.

"John," he started without looking away from me. "She pulled out her IV, and Donovan, make sure she doesn't get put in any newspapers." Dr. Watson immediately came to my side and inspected my arm. Ms. Donovan just crossed her arms.

"And why is that, Freak?" Sergeant Donovan said with distaste. And with that I assumed that she really didn't like Mr. Holmes. Mr. Holmes rolled his eyes and turned his head to look at Sergeant Donovan.

"Because, Donovan, Elizabeth witnessed a murder and she scared that the murderer will come after her." Sergeant Donovan didn't look impressed but as soon as the words left his mouth, my eyes widened. How did he know that? I never said anything.

"How did you...? I never said anything about Mom-" I immediately clamped down on my tongue and all their heads whipped towards me. Saying it out loud made it seem all too real for me, despite me knowing for a fact that it was. Sergeant Donovan's eyes widened into brown saucers and Dr. Watson mimicked a deer in headlights.

"Oh god, your mother!" Sergeant Donovan exclaimed, finally realising that Mr. Holmes wasn't lying.

"Phone Lestrade, get ahold of the CCTV footage were she was hit." Mr. Holmes commanded Sergeant Donovan, and this time she grabbed her phone and left the room without a fight. Mr. Holmes returned his gaze back to me and the small smile reappeared.

"Let's get you back up to the bed, okay?" Mr. Holmes said, waiting for my approval. I nodded slowly.

•\•/•_•\•/•

Soon after I was put onto the bed Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson joined Sergeant Donovan out in the hall. Mr. Holmes said something and then Sergeant Donovan started yelling at him. Dr. Watson got in between them and settled the impromptu argument. I looked at my legs, moving them around a bit. Okay, I could move my legs. That's good. I folded them up into a 'cris-cross' position and resumed watching the adults in the hallway.

A few minutes later, a man with grey hair appeared in the window and it looked like he was scolding Sergeant Donovan and Mr. Holmes. He looked familiar, and I just watched him for a minute then realised that he was the giggling man from the plane. Why was he here?

While Mr. Holmes and Sergeant Donovan were occupied with grey hair-man, Dr. Watson 'snuck' back into my hospital room. He greeted me with a warm smile, which I tried to return. From the look on his face, I didn't smile all that convincingly. He came to sit in the chair next to my left.

"Hello, I'm John." He smiled at me. His face held no deception, much like Sergeant Donovan's. I tentatively smiled back, a little bit more sincere this time.

"I'm Elizabeth." I stuck out my hand and Dr. Watson gently shook it. His sleeve rode up a little showing off a tan line much like the one on Drill-Sergeant Cainer's wrists. A question suddenly popped in my head. "I'm sorry, but where did you serve?"

Dr. Watson blinked, surprised at my question. He didn't say anything for a few seconds and I feared that I offended him or gotten it wrong. I was about to apologise when a grin broke out onto his face.

"Afghanistan. How did you know?"

"You look like a soldier." I mumbled, embarrassed. His smile stayed on his face.

"What do you mean?" he asked eagerly. I blinked at him. I drooped my head in embarrassment.

"Well, um, your hair and the way you hold yourself. And the, um, the tan line on your wrist." I managed to get out. Dr. Watson looked to his wrist with awe.

"Fantastic!" He exclaimed, completely out of no where, startling me. My face scrunched up in confusion and I raised my head. His face made an embarrassed expression. "Sorry. I've been told I do that out loud."

"It's fine." I assured him. Dad had taught me a little about his skill. He told me once, that you needed to figure out the person's story before you tried to sell them something. Apparently, I was okay with the skill. I returned my gaze to the trio outside of the room, trying to figure out why that guy was talking to them. Said man spared a glance over at me and did a double take. It seemed like he recognised me, but then he turned back to Mr. Holmes and Ms. Donovan.

"That's Greg Lestrade. He is Donovan's boss." Dr. Watson informed me. I nodded in affirmation. The giggling man is a police chief. Wonderful. Well, at least I knew he had a sense of humour. His name sounded familiar but I couldn't for the life of me remember where I heard it from.

"How do you feel about the violin at two in the morning?" He asked me eagerly, breaking me from my thoughts. I turned to look at Dr. Watson in a very confused manner, but I answered the question nonetheless.

"Umm, I don't know. I've had to deal with a drum-set from my neighbours forever, so I guess it's okay. Why does that matter?"

"Because since you don't have any identification, the police need to have custody of you." He concluded. My face must have shown some distaste because he quickly began again. "And we think it would be best if you stayed with Sherlock and me, so that I can watch your injuries. If that's okay with you."

I thought about it for a few seconds. Mom most likely wasn't coming and I didn't know anybody else. And staying with people with the police is probably the safest place to be. Also, Dr. Watson was a doctor so I wouldn't have to worry about going to the hospital. I looked up at Dr. Watson and slowly nodded.

"Yeah, that's okay, I guess." I had barely made the words out of my mouth when Mr. Holmes barged in the room.

"Good, because I just signed the papers for your release." On his face appeared a proud smirk. He quickly looked me over and started speaking again. "You should probably get changed. I doubt a hospital gown is going to protect you from the cold outside."

I nodded, looking around for my duffle bag. To my confusion, it was nowhere to be seen. I gave a confused look at the two men.

"Where's my bag?"

"Oh, it was thrown out. It had blood and granola all over it. We saved your money but it's at the police station so you won't get it for awhile." Mr. Holmes stated without missing a beat. "But, Mrs. Hudson is lending you some clothes for now." He finished by dumping some clothes on the bed and strutting out of the room. Dramatic twit. I looked at Dr. Watson for more helpful information.

"Mrs. Hudson is our land-lady." Dr. Watson explained. He seemed lost in thought for a moment and then rushed out of the room, mumbling something about giving me some privacy. He made sure to close the blind before shutting the door.

Dr. Watson looked excited and made no effort to hide it. When the door shut I could barely hear Dr. Watson telling Mr. Holmes what had happened. I looked to the clothes that were on my bed. It was a purple sweater, a pair of corduroy pants and some sneakers that were obviously made for older women.

I threw back the white sheet and gingerly brought my legs over the sides. Dr. Watson had left the IV out since I didn't need it. I scooted forward a bit and rested my bare feet on the cold tiles. I took a deep breath before lifting myself off of the bed, though I still held onto the side with my right hand. I was a bit wobbly at first but then I got used to the weight on my legs and proceeded to shed my hospital gown.

The pants were a bit short and the sweater clung to cast, making it even more difficult to put them on with one arm. When I finally got the clothes on, the sweater was kind of loose around my chest, making me feel that my breasts were small, but since I didn't have a bra I was thankful for the extra fabric. I grabbed the old looking sneakers and put them on. They were oddly comfortable, even though they looked very worn. When I tried to tie them, my left hand wouldn't cooperate. It took a few minute of failing for me to just give up entirely.

"Screw it." I muttered as I walked toward the door and gingerly opened it. Mr. Holmes looked up from his cell phone to see me semi-hiding behind the door. I gave him a pathetic wave and he nodded his head in return. I built up my courage and pulled the door open all the way so that I could exit the only room I had seen so far. I took a step forward and managed to trip on my shoe laces, but I caught myself before I fell. I berated myself in my head. What an idiot! Who actually trips on their shoelaces? Nobody, that's who! Mr. Holmes gave me an exasperated look and pointed to the chair by the door. I gently made my way over to it and sat down. Mr. Holmes kneeled in front of me and started tying the shoes.

"You are quite a hazard to your own health. You do realise this, Elizabeth?" He sighed as he switched to the other shoe. I nodded.

"Yeah, I'll probably trip over the cord of a cell phone. It's quite the mystery on how I made it to the door in the first place." I said dejectedly. I wasn't expecting any comments of denial but I was surprised to find Mr. Holmes chuckling. He looked up and his smile turned contagious and I soon found myself quietly giggling along with him. He stood up and helped me stand. He put his hand on my back, half supporting me and half guiding me to the exit. It felt weird to leave the hospital, but I was sort of glad of leaving the disinfectant and latex smell behind.

We stepped out into a cold night. I let out a deep breath and saw it form in a grey vapour. It was freezing, compared to what I was used to. Mr. Holmes seemed to sense this and he quickly put his scarf around my shaved head and pulled me closer to the street. Expertly, he hailed a taxi on the first try. I stood in wonder on how he did that. I've only seen people do that in movies, but never in real life. He opened the door for me and I eagerly jumped in, away from the coldness. He slid graciously into the car and shut the door behind him. He leaned toward the driver and said, "221 B. Baker Street."

As the cab began to speed off, I caught a glance of a man with an umbrella staring at the cab. For some reason, he looked familiar, like I had seen him in a picture somewhere...


End file.
